


Fight Through

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship Tournament, Fights, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Pining, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: “A tournament,” Felix repeats, once the letter has been read to him in full. He paces the floor, teeth gritted. His fingers itch for a weapon to swing. “A tournament.”“A tournament,” Sylvain agrees, tone flat and, as far as Felix can tell, completely bored, as if he hadn’t just read aloud the news that Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of Faerghus and all of Fódlan, intends to select a spouse based on a combat tournament.Dimitri has called for a tournament to decide who will have his hand in marriage. Felix is not pleased.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 30
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MxTicketyBoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxTicketyBoo/gifts).



> This fic was commissioned by MxTicketyBoo! They asked for a Dimilix courtship tournament with some pining and smut thrown in. This was a bit of a challenge to plot out, but it was soooo much fun! I'm super thrilled to have been able to write such a cool concept.

The news arrives while they’re away in Sreng, delivered in a letter that had sat unopened on Sylvain’s desk for who knows how long. No doubt there is an identical one waiting for Felix in his own study. Currently, however, he lacks the time and patience to return home to check. 

Sylvain reads the letter. Felix listens attentively, his brow tightening with every line.

“A tournament,” Felix repeats, once the letter has been read to him in full. He paces the floor, teeth gritted. His fingers itch for a weapon to swing. “A  _ tournament. _ ” 

“A tournament,” Sylvain agrees, tone flat and, as far as Felix can tell, completely bored, as if he hadn’t just read aloud the news that Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of Faerghus and all of Fódlan, intends to select a spouse based on a  _ combat tournament _ . 

Felix turns on his heel. He whips around to face Sylvain, face drawn and nose wrinkled in barely-contained fury. “What is he thinking?” 

Sylvain shrugs, tossing the letter onto the table and reclining in his chair. “Dunno,” he says, still bored and flippant as ever. Felix wants to smack him. “Probably that it’s about time he started thinking about the line of succession, and since he hasn’t shown any interest in any of the noble ladies that have been presented to him – criminal, by the way, Lady Aumont is gorgeous, and Duchess Castellane can dance like the best of them – so he might as well go for whoever’s strongest.” 

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it, though?” Sylvain shrugs. He turns his head to look at Felix over the back of the couch, and there’s something in his eye, in the way a smile almost tugs at his lips, like he’s trying to hide his amusement, that fills Felix with a sickening mixture of anger and dread. “Faerghus has always been all about warfare. Heck, we’re founded on it. Makes sense to me that the king would want a warrior bride.” 

_ A warrior bride. _ Felix resists the urge to retch. “He’d never agree to it.” 

“Mm. Maybe not, but it is happening.” 

It is. Sylvain is right. The letter is dated over a week ago, with the date of the tournament two weeks from now. Felix makes his way around the couch, dropping backwards onto it and leaning against the arm opposite to Sylvain. He lifts a hand to his forehead, fingers stretching across it as he kneads his temples. “I’ll kill him.” 

“Uh-huh.” Sylvain reaches over to the table and picks up one of the two teacups set on the tray. It’s still steaming, but just barely; neither of them had touched the tray at all after the servants had left it. Sylvain blows on the surface, then takes a sip. “So you’re entering, right?” 

If Felix had been drinking his tea as well, he’d have spit it out all over Sylvain. Instead, he just sits up, eyes wide. “What?!”

“You heard me.” Finally, Sylvain’s expression changes, a sly grin curling over his lips. Felix might almost have called it  _ shit-eating _ , if he were more inclined to that sort of term. “Come on, you have to enter! You’re probably the most powerful warrior in all of the former Kingdom of Faerghus, and you’ve only been in love with Dimitri for… you know, pretty much ever.”

“I have not.” Felix scowls, petulantly falling back against the couch again. “And I  _ will _ not.” 

Sylvain shrugs. “Suit yourself, but we’re expected to be in Fhirdiad to witness it, anyway. Might as well have some fun while we’re there, right?” 

_ Fun _ . Felix doesn’t think any of this sounds like much fun, but he can’t exactly argue – nor can he deny the appeal of fighting his way through Fódlan’s strongest to prove himself worthy of his king.

It’s silly, of course. But still appealing.

* * *

They depart Gautier three days later, packed and with correspondence sent ahead. Felix does not relish the journey the same way Sylvain does; he has never been one for riding, and he still, even after all these years, cannot understand the appeal of it.

“Don’t look so sour,” Sylvain chides him, leaning over out of his saddle to lightly punch Felix in the arm. “At least this time we’re going for pleasure, not business.” 

“I’d hardly call this pleasure,” Felix says, leading the horse to the side so he’s out of Sylvain’s reach. He’d almost rather they were on their way back to Sreng, because at least there he doesn’t have to speak to anyone.

Sylvain laughs. “Whatever you say, Felix. Try to hide that smile of yours next time I mention Dimitri if you’re going to lie about how much you want to see him, yeah?” 

Before Felix can retaliate, Sylvain spurs his horse forward into a gallop. Felix rolls his eyes and follows suit, hating that Sylvain is right – but hating more that he can’t deny it.

* * *

Fhirdiad is the same as ever. Same busy streets, same chilly breeze, same bland, boring food. It's marginally nicer in the castle, if only for the warm hearths and the quiet halls, but Felix just can't find it in him to relax. Not when he's dying to get through this stupid, insufferable dinner, this aggravating small talk, this horrid pretense that everything is okay when there's a constant reminder looming over them all that in just over a week's time, Dimitri will be engaged.

Nobody bothers to force Felix into conversation. He exchanges pleasantries and speaks of the state of Fraldarius when he must, but he leaves Sylvain to report on their recent expedition to Sreng. It suits him just fine; he doesn't want to talk about that sort of politics, anyway. He just wants to get Dimitri  _ alone _ .

His chance comes at long last when the last of their dessert plates are cleared away. A servant asks Dimitri if he would like her to bring them all tea, and Dimitri declines. "I would rather take tea in my private chambers," he tells her. "There will be no need for your assistance; I have everything I need. You may bring some to Sylvain and Dedue in their respective chambers later, though."

Felix does not miss the way Dimitri turns his eye on him. He does not need that glance to reaffirm what he already knows: this is an invitation. One he has already accepted, even without vocalizing his answer.

And so, when Dimitri stands, Dedue does not trail behind him as he retreats to his quarters. Instead Dedue gives him a slow nod as he passes by – a 'good night,' or perhaps a 'good luck.' Felix does not care to decipher which it is; he has more important things to concern himself with.

Like the fact that, for the first time in years, he is being led to Dimitri's bedroom. 

It's not the same bedroom he'd occupied when they were younger. This is the royal bedroom – the king's chambers – and so for a moment, Felix feels a little out of his depth. He pushes past it, however, when Dimitri gestures for him to take a seat on the little couch before the bed.

That simple gesture, that one act of consideration, rekindles the fire in Felix's heart.

"Don't act as if you don't know why I'm here."

It’s the first thing Felix has said to Dimitri since his arrival, beyond a stilted greeting. Dimitri pauses, his back turned to Felix as he sets the tea on. The match he'd lit to heat the water slowly burns toward his fingertips. He sighs, heavy and forlorn, enough that his entire body seems to heave with it. "I had hoped we could at least chat a bit before we started with this."

He lights a flame under the teapot and flicks the match to snuff it out. Felix crosses his arms, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left. He still does not sit. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were in Sreng."

"Not about the tournament." Felix waves his hand dismissively. "That you were looking for a wife."

Dimitri does not look him in the eye. "It is not as simple as..."

"And why bother with this farce, anyway?" Felix's hands flex where they clutch the fabric of his sleeves. "It obviously wasn't your idea."

Another sigh, too world-weary for someone of Dimitri's age. If Felix were a lesser man, the sound may have pulled at his sympathies.

"I doubt any answer I give will be enough to satisfy you," Dimitri says. At last, he moves over to the couch, and he sits down upon it, hands clasped between his legs and elbows on his knees. He's hunched over as if the weight of the world rests upon his back.

In many ways, Felix supposes it does.

"I agreed to it because it was necessary," Dimitri says at last, after a long, thoughtful pause. "I will need to marry eventually. If I cannot select a partner whom I feel some sort of emotional connection with, then the least I can do is choose someone who can protect Fódlan to rule her at my side."

Felix's nose wrinkles as he sneers. "More foolish self-sacrifice."

Dimitri laughs, half a hum through his nose. "At least this way, I cannot be called sentimental."

He gives Felix a look then, gaze so intent it's as if his single eye can see all the way to Felix's core. He's searching for something in Felix's face, in his posture, in the purse of his lips. Whatever it is, Felix does not want to give it up.

In truth, he wishes it  _ was _ sentiment that drove Dimitri to this. That would be far less cruel than admitting he is willingly about to enter a loveless marriage in the name of duty.

At least if he were marrying out of love, Felix would have some kind of closure.

All at once, the fight leaves Felix. He exhales, shoulders sagging, and looks away, head turned toward the door opposite where Dimitri sits. "You didn't even consult me," he says, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. He feels small, all of a sudden. Like he's a child and watching his brother leave Fraldarius for the last time.

"There was no time," Dimitri says. "The nobility has been pressuring me for months now – long since before you and Sylvain left for Sreng." He shifts on the couch. Felix looks back over to him, but refuses to look him in the eye; instead, he watches as Dimitri's hand curls into a fist atop his knee. "I wrote to you in the hope that you would see the letters before it was too late. But you were gone longer than expected, and..."

This time, it's Felix's turn to sigh. He knows it's unfair to ask all this of Dimitri – he is well aware of the pressures the former Faerghus nobility had put on him shortly after the war. And that’s to say nothing of the remaining Adrestian nobles and the carrion of Leicester looking for any sign of weakness they could use to call Dimitri's rule into question. It makes sense that Dimitri would give in to their demands, if only to placate them.

It makes Felix sick.

He takes a seat at last, pressing himself into the corner of the couch, as far away from Dimitri in the middle as he can get. "Was it Gilbert's idea, then?"

Dimitri laughs. "Dedue, actually."

"Hm." Felix doesn't know what to make of that. He supposes that's fine, then; Dedue would not suggest anything Dimitri would out-and-out hate, and he would not allow Dimitri to make a decision that would make him completely miserable.

That decides it, then.

"I'm entering."

The words hang in the air. For the first time since arriving in Dimitri's room, Felix holds his gaze, strong and defiant.

"...Felix."

"Don't tell me I can't," he snaps. "I read the letter." Over and over again, looking for a way out. "There's no rule saying I can't."

"No, but..."

"Then don't try to stop me." Felix clenches his fists and stands. He strides to the door purposefully with every intent to leave the conversation here. He's entering, and that's that.

When he looks back, Dimitri has a curious little smile on his face. "...Very well," he says, quietly. "I will speak with the tournament organizers and let them know that Duke Fraldarius intends to compete."

* * *

It takes a long time for sleep to find Felix that night, the minutes blending into hours as the candle at his bedside burns down to the wick. The dimming light does nothing to slow the rapid beat of his heart at the realization that he has just agreed to fight for Dimitri's hand in marriage.

* * *

He tells Sylvain the next morning over breakfast. Sylvain responds by dropping the biscuit he'd been spreading jam over right into the butter bowl 

He beams, the expression slowly stretching over his face. "Great! Sign me up, too."

Felix pauses with his hand in the air, halfway to the plate of bacon and sausages. "You're joking."

"Oh, no. I'm dead serious. More serious than I've ever been about anything in my life, really."

"Bullshit." Felix snorts. "If you're saying that just to anger me, it's working."

"I'm not!" Sylvain insists. "Come on, it'll be fun. I get to show off a little for the ladies, you get a leg up in the tournament, everyone wins."

"Are you suggesting you're going to cheat for me?" Felix narrows his eyes, glaring at Sylvain as he piles his plate with more meat.

"Sure am." Sylvain picks up the biscuit he'd dropped and re-slathers it with rich, sweet jam. "Come on, don't look at me like that. You hate chivalry, and two nights ago you were trying to come up with ways to get His Highness to call the whole thing off. Besides, do you really want to run the risk of having him marry someone else?"

He has a point. A few points, really, but Felix still doesn't like it. "And if you win?"

"Please. I know how to throw a fight, Felix. Not that I'd be able to beat you, anyway."

It's true, and the flattery almost works. Almost. Felix still has the distinct feeling that there's something Sylvain isn't telling him.

"Fine," he concedes, after a moment of thought. "But if you make it far enough to face me, I won't go easy on you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

It seems as though all of Fódlan has turned out to either witness or participate in the competition for Dimitri's hand. A crowd has gathered outside the Fhirdiad arena, competitors and spectators and vendors alike all adding their voices to the din.

As much as Felix dislikes the noise and the idea that he is to be a spectacle for the masses, there is a part of him that thrills at the anticipation of a good fight. He has on good authority that the competition will be fierce – "I would not let anyone compete who was not worthy," Dedue had said – and that alone is enough to excite him.

The preparation period passes by in a blur, and soon, Felix finds himself awaiting his first match. He can hear the crowd through the door, cheering or booing or crying out any time something happens. He hears the clang of metal-on-metal too, a sound both exhilarating and relaxing.

He really is doing this.

The doors open. Felix walks out to deafening cheers, head held high and shoulders set straight. His heart hammers in his chest, roused by the crowd's excitement.

He closes his eyes against it. Breathes deep. Focuses, narrows his world down to the sand beneath his boots, the heavy comfort of a sword in his hand, and the knowledge that his king is watching.

He does not look for Dimitri. All Felix sees when he opens his eyes is his opponent in front of him, raising her own sword in challenge.

Felix drops into stance. A flag falls between him and his opponent, a young woman whose shield bears the coat of arms of some minor lord's house. Perhaps one of the ladies Sylvain had mentioned before they'd set out, but Felix cannot find it in him to care.

Whoever this woman is, she has no hopes of winning here today.

Beside him, distantly, Felix hears a voice count down to the beginning of the fight. The crowd hushes as if every person in it is holding their breath in anticipation of the coming battle.

Felix tightens his grip on his sword. Shifts his weight. The flagbearer continues his countdown: three, two...

One.

The flag lifts. Felix kicks off, sword raised to strike. His opponent lunges; he moves to the side, pivots on his heel, brings his blade down against a thick shoulder guard. A warning strike before he gets serious:  _ I intend to win. Do not take me lightly. _

She doesn't. As soon as Felix pulls back, she spins and lunges, thrusting her blade toward him. She nearly catches his side, but Felix dodges just in time.

She's fast.  _ Good _ , Felix thinks.  _ Perhaps this will be a challenge after all. _

And a challenge it is. She nearly manages to sweep Felix to the ground with one particularly well-aimed swing, and then a follow-up grab for his cape, but the experience he’s gained on real battlefields works in his favour, and he’s able to dig the hilt of his sword into her ribcage and flip her flat on her back. 

When it’s over, the officiator takes Felix by the wrist, lifts his hand into the air, and declares him the winner. And for the first time, Felix really sees the crowd around him.

For the first time, he sees Dimitri, smiling down at him from his seat in the center of the arena stands. 

Felix scoffs. _Ridiculous_ , he thinks. But he looks up, meets his king’s eye, and lifts his chin. 

He will win this. For Dimitri. 

* * *

The first round lasts the rest of the day. It isn’t until the evening that the remaining competitors are allowed to gather again.

“Not bad,” Sylvain says as he takes a seat in the arena’s antechamber next to Felix. Felix barely looks up at him. "I mean, I knew you were going to win, but it was still fun to watch."

"Hm." Felix leans forward to stretch, arms extended and torso nearly parallel to the bench. "I take it you won too, then."

"You weren't even watching? Some friend you are."

"I don't need to watch someone whose fighting style I already know." He looks up at last. Sylvain is smiling, and Felix can't keep himself from mirroring it.

"So does that mean you won't be watching Dorothea, either?"

Felix sits up, brows raised. He opens his mouth to ask, but as if on cue, Dorothea herself approaches the two of them on the bench, a wicked smile on her face.

"Felix, so nice to see you again," she says. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised you won your first match. Although I am surprised you of all people would enter a tournament like this. You don't exactly seem the marriage type."

"And I thought you finished with your status-seeking nonsense years ago," Felix counters, an inexplicable jolt of irritation at the accusation. She's right that he has no interest in marriage, but something about the assessment rings hollow all the same.

Felix chooses to ignore it.

" _ Years ago _ , we were at war," Dorothea says. "I never stopped looking for a husband, but there were more important things going on. Or are you saying I should have sheathed my sword permanently and stuck to singing?"

Felix scowls. He knows a trap when he hears one after years of falling into Ingrid's, many of them eerily similar to the one Dorothea has just set. "So you're here to marry Dimitri."

"And you're not?" Dorothea almost laughs. "Unless you're about to tell me you're here to make sure only someone worthy of him wins..."

"Hey, hey." Sylvain chooses this moment to interrupt. And good thing, too, because Felix can feel his restraint slipping further and further away from him with every word that leaves Dorothea's lips. "No need for any of this. We're all friends here, aren't we?"

"Not when we're competing for love," Dorothea responds evenly. She turns to Sylvain with a disparaging frown. "Although I doubt that's why you're here, Sylvain."

"That was uncalled for." Sylvain smiles, stands, and shrugs. "You know me; I may not be interested in Dimitri's hand in marriage, but aren't we all looking for love in some way or another?"

"Hm. Looking for some poor girl to comfort after she loses, more like."

"If that's what it takes, then..."

Felix rolls his eyes. He doesn't like that Sylvain is so blatantly lying, but he knows better than to point it out. As much as he respects Dorothea as a person and as an opponent, something cold and tight settles in his stomach at the thought of her standing next to Dimitri at the altar. 

He distracts himself from the thought by lightly punching Sylvain's leg. "Incorrigible."

"Hey!"

"In any case," Dorothea starts, turning her attention back to Felix as if Sylvain hadn't spoken at all. "It looks like I'll be seeing you in the arena tomorrow. I just thought I would warn you not to take me lightly – again – because I have every intention of winning."

She turns, throwing the two men a sly little smile over her shoulder. She tosses her hair back and walks off, skirts swaying around her feet. Felix frowns; Dorothea will be a difficult opponent, to be sure, but he will not allow her to win.

For Dimitri, he can't.

* * *

True to her word, the next time Felix meets Dorothea, it is from across the arena, blade in hand and poised to strike. Felix himself readies his weapon, and the moment the flag rises, he lunges for her.

Dorothea is every bit as graceful in a fight as she is on the stage. She moves as if she's dancing, one foot in front of the other and entire body flowing with it. It's pretty, it's showy, and the crowd 'ooh's and 'ahh's with every step. Dorothea knows how to earn their hearts, to curry their favour, to endear herself to the people so that she will be more readily accepted as their queen. If Felix cared for such tactics, he may have praised her for them.

As it is, however, he doesn't. All he cares about is winning, about keeping Dimitri free and unattached. ( _ Keeping him available _ , something whispers in the back of his mind, quiet enough Felix cannot question whose voice it is.)

So he will not be deterred. Not by the way Dorothea taunts him as she thrusts her sword just a hair too close, and not when she spins on her heel and casts a Thunder spell at him.

He jumps back out of the way, the spell striking where his feet had been not even a second prior. A part of Felix is angry that she would use magic when they were clearly meant to be sword-fighting, but another, greater part of Felix suddenly feels freer.

If she is going to use every trick at her disposal, then so will he.

Felix's magic is not as powerful as Dorothea's. That is a fact, and one they are both aware of. Still, as he feels the magic course through his body, as he looks for an opening and plans his split-second attack, he knows the strength of his spell will not matter. And so he casts it, aiming behind Dorothea to force her forward and toward his blade.

Felix strikes her, hard and fast enough to pierce her armor. Dorothea cries out, but does not stop; she spins, casts another spell, forces Felix away from her. And Felix goes, avoiding her magic, but predicting her next move: a lunge, a feint, a swing.

He skips back, turns the way she does not want him to, and ducks the sword coming for his head. Felix lowers his center of gravity, crouches, and slams the flat of his blade into her stomach hard enough to knock her off balance.

He swings his sword; she meets it, but stumbles.

He casts a spell; she nearly trips as she scrambles to escape it.

He runs to the side, raises his sword, and brings it down against her back.

Dorothea falls. She spins on the ground, throws one last spell, and flattens herself against the ground when Felix pushes through the spell and points his blade at her throat.

"Yield," he tells her.

Dorothea's eyes dart around, looking for escape. Felix presses the tip of the sword against her skin. At last, she falls limp beneath him, eyes slipping shut as she silently admits defeat.

Felix is declared the winner.

He sheathes his sword, and when he looks up to Dimitri this time, he finds him standing. His imperious and approving gaze is fixed securely on Felix.

This time, Felix returns the smile, haughty and proud.

* * *

There's a two-day break between rounds, both to give the participants time to rest and to allow for celebration. It's frivolous, Felix thinks, and entirely unnecessary; he doesn't need a break, and if the last few competitors left do, then they're hardly worth the effort of defeating.

He does not object to the feast, though.

It's meant for all the potential suitors fighting in the tournament – to congratulate those who have advanced to the semifinals and to console those who have not made it as far. Regardless of the intent, Felix is using it to size up his last remaining opponents: two women who claim to hail from Ordelia and Aegir, respectively.

"Pretty, aren't they?" Sylvain asks, long after the meal has ended and everyone has been left to mingle. One of them, the Aegir woman, has sidled up to Dimitri. Felix is too far away to hear them, but that does not stop the jealous swell rising in his throat, the angry heat that flares in his chest.

"No," he says flatly. He doesn't care how pretty they are. All he cares about is what weapon they will face him with, and how they will fall before his blade.

The other one – the Ordelian – comes to their table, cutting into Felix's vision and blocking Dimitri from sight. He scowls; if she notices, she says nothing.

"My lords," she begins, lifting her skirts and curtsying. "Pardon me for interrupting, but might I have a moment of your time?"

"Why?" Felix snaps, at the same time Sylvain says, "A woman as lovely as you can have anything she likes of us."

She titters behind her hand, hollow and forced. "Sir Gautier, you flatter me. In that case, I was hoping to invite the two of you – and Lady Essen over there – to tea tomorrow afternoon. In the spirit of bringing us all together before our final battles, yes?"

Felix narrows his eyes. He can hardly think of anything less appealing than taking tea with these women, but to outright refuse would be... troublesome, if not foolish. He does not trust the look in this woman's eyes, but it is precisely that distrust that makes Felix more inclined to accept the invitation.

He knows better than to pass up an opportunity to learn more about his opponent, after all.

"Fine," he says.

"We'd be happy to," Sylvain agrees. "And in the meantime..." He stands, offering her his arm. She accepts it with a practiced smile, and Sylvain leads her away to dance.

Finally left alone, Felix turns his attention back to Dimitri. This time, he catches his king's eye. They hold each other's gaze a moment; and then, much to Felix's silent pleasure, Dimitri pulls himself away from his present company and makes his way over to Felix, leaving Dedue to speak with the Aegir woman.

Felix watches as Dimitri approaches. His gait is strong, intent. Powerful, maybe. Certainly regal. Had he always carried himself this way? Felix can remember a time before this, when Dimitri had always stood with a curve to his back and a hunch in his shoulder, burdened by the ghosts that he kept chained around his neck.

He looks... good like this. Healthy. Not wholly happy, but almost there: there's still a shadow beneath his good eye and little wrinkles in his brow to speak of the stresses of kingship, but Dimitri seems so much freer now. It's hard to believe he is the same man he was even at the end of the war.

"Felix." Dimitri stops before him, a soft, tired smile playing about his lips. "May I borrow you for a moment?"

He holds out his hand. Felix glances at it, then back up at his face. A few years ago, Felix might have told him to wipe that look of his face. He might even have called it sickening. Now, it makes something warm and heavy settle in his chest. Something he does not want to face.

So he doesn't. He looks away.

"It's not like I can refuse an order from my king," he says. A firm, enthusiastic  _ yes _ , one Dimitri understands immediately.

"Thank you."

Felix takes his hand. He allows Dimitri to pull him from his seat. And if he lingers a moment before letting his hand slip from Dimitri's grip, then Dimitri also understands not to mention it.

* * *

Dimitri leads Felix toward his room.

It's the same path they'd walked what feels like ages ago, before this whole affair had begun. Felix can't fathom why Dimitri wants to speak with him here, of all places; the castle is mostly deserted by now, except for the guests still in the dining hall, so why bother coming all this way when they can have their privacy just about anywhere?

They stop just short of his chambers, outside the door leading to them. Dimitri puts a hand to the door, halts, and turns instead to face Felix.

"I'm sorry to have pulled you away so suddenly," he says. Preamble to what he really wants to say.

"Out with it, boar."

Despite the nickname, Dimitri smiles, shoulders relaxing as if that word draws all the tension from them. "You never do change, do you?" he asks. Before Felix can demand anything else of him, however, Dimitri continues: "I have something I want to give you."

He pulls something from a pocket, slowly and carefully, as if he were afraid to damage it. Felix does not know what he's expecting to see, but when Dimitri unfolds a handkerchief, deep blue and worn around the edges, he finds himself surprised.

"What is this?" he asks, heart jumping to his throat. He has a feeling he already knows.

"For you," Dimitri says in lieu of a proper answer. He folds the handkerchief carefully, delicately, meticulously. The corners match exactly, the crease sharp and flat, and tucks it into a pocket at Felix’s chest, eyes never once leaving his work. “For luck.”

He places a hand over the pocket. Over Felix’s heart, beating furiously beneath the gift.

Felix scoffs. “I don’t need luck.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.” The concession is punctuated with a smile, small and soft and fond. It makes Felix’s face redden and his heart race ever faster. He has to look away.

Dimitri’s hand slides up his chest, the backs of his gloved fingers trailing over the curve of Felix’s neck, his jaw, until they come to rest beneath his chin. “Win,” he breathes. He does not make Felix face him. “For me.”

He leans in. A beat of silence passes between them. For a moment, Felix almost gives in, almost surrenders, his every instinct singing for him to let this happen – whatever  _ this _ may be.

But he doesn't. He places his gloved fingertips to Dimitri's lips, halting him before he can close the distance.

“Boar," Felix says, softly. "Dimitri."

He steps back. Dimitri watches the motion, frowning as Felix's hand falls away. But it does not go far; instead it moves to Felix's chest, over his heart, to clutch at where the handkerchief has been so carefully tucked away. “I will win,” he says. “Watch me.”

Dimitri smiles. "I intend to."

* * *

Felix returns to his room. He's still staying in the castle, in his usual accommodations. He’s here so often his guest suite usually feels more like a second home to him, but now, things are different.

Now he is here not as Dimitri's friend, or his knight, or as Duke Fraldarius advising the King of Fódlan: he is here as a potential husband to said king.

It makes the bedroom feel small and cold, even with the fire roaring in the hearth, no doubt set at Dimitri's request ( _ It would not do for you to catch cold _ , as he has said so many times before).

Felix kicks off his boots and throws himself onto the bed, rolling until he's flat on his stomach. The handkerchief folded tightly in his pocket presses uncomfortably against his chest, yet another reminder of its presence.

As if he could forget.

He lays resolutely still a few moments longer, stubbornly refusing to adjust his position and relieve himself of that discomfort. He tries to think of something else, anything else: training forms, swordsmiths, fighting techniques – but he still can't stop his thoughts from returning to Dimitri, to the way he had looked as he'd folded the handkerchief.

To the way he had touched Felix's face.

Felix sits up roughly. He practically tears the offending material from his pocket and rears his arm back to throw it, but stops himself at the last moment. Slowly, slowly, he lowers his arm, bringing it before him so he can actually look at the damn thing.

It looks large in his hand. Bigger than a typical handkerchief, and embroidered delicately, a silver line slashing diagonally across, but ending in a point before it reaches the opposite corner. Felix lifts the material to examine it more closely; he does not know much about textiles, but even Felix recognizes that this material isn't standard for a handkerchief. It's thick. Too thick, and not soft at all.

He frowns. Clearly it is not really a handkerchief. But what could it be, then? And why did Dimitri have it?

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Goddess, the thing even  _ smells _ like Dimitri.

He lifts the silken cloth to his nose. It sits lightly against his lips, soft and warm from the remnants of his own body heat. Felix inhales deeply, drinking in the scent of Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri.

He lowers his hands. Tilts his head back, parts his lips, exhales reverently – as if he were worshipping the goddess and not fantasizing about Dimitri’s hands on him, pulling him close and tucking Felix’s face into the crook of his neck. As if this scent weren’t conjuring images Felix had forced himself not to think of in years: dreams of being pulled into bed with Dimitri, of straddling his hips and brushing his bangs out of his face as he leans down to take the good-night kiss that is owed to him.

He feels a fool for even thinking it.

Felix tosses the handkerchief away. It flutters through the air, landing in a tiny heap on his bedside table. He glares at it. Stupid fucking boar and his stupid fucking favour.

He yanks his clothes off furiously and tosses them onto the floor, for once not bothering to fold them or put them away. He buries himself in the bed, not so much tucking himself in as dragging the comforter over his body and rolling himself in it like a strange, spongy dessert Mercedes had once tried to feed him. Of course, this puts the damn handkerchief right back in his line of sight, and Felix rolls over onto his back to glare at the ceiling.

After a few moments of staring angrily at it, he rolls back over, grabs the stupid favour, and drags it under the covers with him.

And if Felix falls asleep clutching it to his chest... well, nobody has to know.

* * *

Tea with Ladies Amelie (as Felix learns the Ordelian is called) and Essen is every bit as dull as expected. The teahouse they had chosen is cozy and quaint, the chairs cushioned, the air fragrant from the flowers adorning every table and counter. It's stifling. Felix hates it.

What he hates more is how  _ useless _ this whole endeavor is proving to be. There has yet to be a single word regarding the tournament, and so Felix has been unable to glean anything about their techniques or strategies from them. So, while they chat with Sylvain about what essentially amounts to nothing, Felix's mind keeps drifting back to last night, to Dimitri's hand over his chest, to the scent of him clinging to the fabric of his handkerchief, to the feel of it between his fingers as he slips a hand into his pocket now to touch it.

Lady Amelie prepares the tea. Unusual, considering they are in a tea house and there are presumably people here to do that for her, but she deflects Sylvain's question to that effect by saying, "I have very particular tastes; the blend I've brought along is one that you can't obtain in Fhirdiad."

She pours the tea. It flows from the pot’s spout, a deep, deep red, fragrant and pretty. Felix turns his nose up at it.

Sylvain, however, lifts his cup to his face and inhales. A familiar smile tugs at his lips. "It smells delicious," he says. "Like berries. Albinean?"

"Morfis, actually," Lady Amelie replies. "And it tastes even better than it smells. Go on, try it."

Sylvain lifts his cup into the air, a silent toast, and then lowers it to his lips. Felix watches him with some ire – this is their competition, not some silly conquest – but he notices that the liquid never quite reaches Sylvain's mouth before he lowers the cup once more.

"You're right," he says. "It is delicious. You'll have to show me how to brew it sometime."

She titters, clapping her hands together before turning around to pour a cup for Felix first, then Lady Essen. Felix glares at Sylvain, but he catches a look in his eye – stern – and watches, silently, as Sylvain pours the contents of his cup into the plant beside his seat as soon as Lady Amelie's back is turned.

_ Don't drink the tea. _

Felix looks down at his cup. He turns his nose up at it. "Is it sweet?"

"Oh, yeah," Sylvain says before Lady Amelie can give a proper answer. "Even without sugar."

"Then I'll pass. I can't stand sweets."

"It's more sour than sweet," Lady Essen says. She adds a spoonful of sugar to her own cup, possibly to prove a point, but notably does not drink it herself.

"I don't care," Felix responds. He stands, fed up. He's gotten the information he needs, and he doesn't need to wait around any longer to find out how many other ways in which they plan to poison him. "This is a waste of my time."

"Sir Fraldarius–"

"I'll see you in the arena tomorrow."

He turns to leave, cloak whipping around and nearly knocking the tea over with the force of his movement. He doesn't bother turning around when they call after him, nor does he grace them with a response. All Felix does is shove a hand into his pocket to thumb at Dimitri's handkerchief, more resolute now than ever to ensure that neither of those women get anywhere near him.

* * *

The battle begins early.

Lady Essen stands on the other side of the ring, a lance in hand. Not her favoured weapon, Felix notes, and it looks heavy and unwieldly in her hands. She must have chosen it for the range, then.

Even so, why risk using an unfamiliar weapon? The moment Felix closes in on her, she's finished. Unless, for whatever reason, she thinks she can keep him from–

It's then that his eyes widen with realization. He watches the way she tests the heft of her weapon, her hand smoothing over the shaft with the same practiced grace she had used to stir her tea. The tea she had pointedly not sipped.

So that's her game.

He drops into stance. The flag drops.

Felix launches.

He avoids her first swing with ease, feinting one way and moving the other. Lady Essen has advanced this far for a reason, though, and she catches on to what he's doing quickly, using the momentum of her first swing to carry her into the next. This attack nearly gets Felix, but he manages to throw himself to the side just in time to avoid the tip of her lance grazing his clothes.

His fingertips brush against the ground, dust rising around them. He doesn't quite stumble, but it takes him a little bit longer to right himself than he'd like, and so by the time he turns around, Essen is already on him. She brings her lance down and Felix just manages to parry the blow, his own strong enough to knock her trajectory off and cause her to stagger back a step or two.

Good. Her inexperience is working against her.

As she regains her footing, Felix closes in. He brings his sword down against her side; she twists out of the way enough that the blade does not strike true, but does cut into her armor. It's leather, meant to allow her more freedom of movement, but it's not quite durable enough to protect her from the strength of Felix's blow, nor the sharpness of his blade.

She can't turn to face him fast enough. Felix is quick on his feet and is able to duck and pivot around to her back, but that's not enough to keep her from trying to fight him off; Lady Essen swings the back of the lance upwards and catches Felix's cross-guard. There's enough leverage and force behind the motion that she's able to wrench the sword right from his grip, nearly dislocating his wrist before he chooses to let it go. It leaves him unarmed, and for a moment he considers scrambling for his sword, but–

But she's back on him faster than he anticipates, twirling the lance and brutally bringing it down. He jumps out of the way just in time to avoid the tip, but he still gets caught by flecks of dirt and sand kicked up from the force of the blow.

He curses under his breath. That forced him even further away from his sword. He won't be able to get it now without risking impalement.

Then again... that's what she expects, isn't it?

He shifts stance, bending his knees and digging his heels into the ground.

By the time she's stepped forward and swung again, Felix is ready for her, ducking beneath the lance to grab its shaft in his hands. He's far enough from the blade that she won't be able to nick him with it, but close enough he can use the same momentum and leverage she had before to push the lance away from himself and knock her off balance.

Felix lets go, practically throwing the weapon to the ground, and lunges for Lady Essen. He grabs her around the middle and tackles her to the ground, legs pressed firmly over her thighs, one hand pinning her wrists above her head after he forces the weapon from her hands. The other rests at her neck.

He presses down. Just enough to cut off her air flow, but not enough to cause any real damage. She thrashes under him, trying to knock him off her, but Felix holds fast. 

He's won.

She knows it, too, because a second later, she stills. She glares at him, looking for all the world like a snake ready to strike. But she doesn't; she waits until the match is called and Felix is pulled up, and then she slithers away in shame.

The crowd roars. Felix spares a glance at them, then turns so that he can fully face Dimitri.

As always, Dimitri is watching.

Good.

Felix reaches into his pocket. He pulls out the handkerchief, crumpled in his fist, and holds it out to Dimitri like an offering. Like a promise fulfilled.

Dimitri stands. The cheering crowd melts away around him as Felix’s world narrows down to that one beautiful, haunting eye.

* * *

He’s barely out of the ring when Dimitri hauls him aside.

Felix goes easily, his weight nothing in the boar’s strong, forceful grip. He could resist, he’s sure: dig his feet in and pull back, wrench his arm from Dimitri’s hand and tell him to go back to his throne. Felix wants to do none of those things. The mix of adrenaline from the fight, the thrill of victory, and hot, roiling lust at being dragged around like he’s nothing all mix pleasantly in the pit of his stomach, and he allows himself to be thrown back and pinned up against a wall.

Whatever his king wants of him, Felix will oblige.

Dimitri’s mouth is on his, hot and hungry and open, no sooner than Felix’s back hits the cold stone wall. Hands grip at his jaw, his arms, his sides, his hips; always roaming, never settling in one place for too long. Felix grabs at Dimitri’s hair like he’s lost at sea and this is his only hope for salvation, all the pent-up desire in him from a few nights ago crashing over him and dragging him under. He tugs greedily at those soft golden strands, dusting them with dirt and grime and chalk and whatever else is caked on his gloves.

Dimitri hardly seems to care. The way he takes Felix by the hips, wrenches him away from the wall, and turns him around before shoving him back into it seems to be borne more out of desire for Felix than irritation at his actions. He presses up against Felix’s back, the hard bulge of his cock apparent even through their layers of clothing.

Felix’s mouth goes dry. Goddess, Dimitri must be huge.

“You kept my favour,” Dimitri growls into his ear, momentarily dragging Felix back into the moment.

“Of course I did,” he grits out, fists clenching against the stone wall even as he pushes back against Dimitri. “What else was I supposed to do with it?”

“Anything,” Dimitri says, teeth scraping against the shell of Felix’s ear. “It is yours, after all. But to think, after all your protests, after how against this whole tournament you were, you would keep it on you…”

He reaches around Felix, snakes a hand under his chest so he can place fingers over his jaw. Dimitri doesn't have to pull Felix to him at all; Felix turns readily, opening his mouth to let him in before their lips even meet.

He presses back against Dimitri. Dimitri's hips roll in slow, deliberate movements, each one a reminder of what's to come. Of what Felix  _ wants _ . He swallows every one of Dimitri's moans, relishing in how loud they get when Felix rocks back against him. The sound echoes around them in the stone hall, making everything all the more overwhelming.

It's too much. It's not enough.

Felix breaks the kiss, reaching behind himself to tangle his fingers in Dimitri's hair and wrench his head away. It's not enough to keep him away entirely, though, and Dimitri makes up for the sudden loss by pressing kiss after kiss to any part of Felix he can reach: his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

"Dimi–" A moan catches in his throat, cutting him off. "Ah – wait–"

"There is no time," Dimitri says, his voice a harsh growl against Felix's skin. "The next match will begin soon. I don't have long."

He takes firm hold of Felix's hips. Felix arches his back, head tilting over his shoulder as Dimitri bites him just behind the ear. "Then hurry up," he says, as if he had not just asked Dimitri to wait.

But that’s all the permission Dimitri needs. All the permission he had been seeking, most likely. He tugs Felix's trousers down roughly, exposing him from the top of his thigh-high boots and up.

There's a pause, then, as Dimitri pulls back. Felix turns to glare at him, ready to demand a reason for his hesitation, but the words die on his tongue as he watches Dimitri tug his cock free of his pants.

Felix swallows. He was right: Dimitri is huge.

It must take him a moment too long to respond or to react, because Dimitri hesitates. "Felix–"

"Shut up, boar," Felix says, unable to do or say anything else, because he's still trying to force himself to think beyond the initial  _ get inside me now _ that keeps repeating in his head. "Just – shut up and fuck me."

Dimitri chuckles. He wraps a hand around the base of his cock and strokes himself, slowly, giving Felix a full, wonderful view of the way his foreskin rolls over the glistening head of his cock. "Such a filthy mouth."

For a moment, Felix wonders if Dimitri is going to make him put it to use, but it seems his king has other plans: he presses up against Felix again, thick shaft resting between Felix's cheeks as he leans over and kisses him again.

Felix returns the kiss eagerly, a small, shocked sound escaping his throat when he feels Dimitri's hand wrap around his cock. He bucks into it, desperately seeking more friction, but Dimitri uses his other hand to still Felix's hips.

"What?!" Felix demands, pulling away from the kiss to glare at Dimitri. "I thought I told you to–"

"Fuck you, yes," Dimitri says, infuriatingly calm. A smug smile tugs at his lips, and he leans to the side so they can brush against Felix's ear. "As you wish."

He tugs at Felix's cock again, thumb moving over the head and rolling over the slit to swipe up the bead of precum that's formed there. Dimitri withdraws his hand soon after. Felix opens his mouth to complain, but once again comes up short when he watches Dimitri use his precum to slick himself up, mixing it with his own.

Felix doesn't think he's ever seen anything so hot in his life.

"I confess I didn't think to bring anything to, ah, prepare you," Dimitri says. "So forgive me, but this will have to do." 

Felix doesn't get a chance to ask what he means before Dimitri's cock slips between his thighs.

His fists clench against the wall; his breath catches in his throat. Felix nearly chokes on it when he feels the head of Dimitri's cock brush against his balls. He  _ does _ choke when it keeps going, just barely touching his own cock, hanging hard and heavy between his legs. It's only when Dimitri stops that Felix manages to regain his composure, albeit just barely.

He shakes and trembles under Dimitri, wishing he could blame it on the cold. But no; Dimitri is warm at his back – too warm – and Felix is overwhelmed. Still, he grunts as he moves his hips forward and back, just once, signaling for Dimitri to move.

He does so with a quiet little laugh, breathy in Felix's ear. "Impatient."

"You're the one who said you don't have long," Felix snaps. "So get on with it."

He feels Dimitri smile against his neck. "Very well."

And then Dimitri moves.

He draws his hips back and snaps them forward quickly, far harder than Felix had expected, but exactly the way he had hoped. It's a little bit awkward at first, with nothing to ease the slide but the little bit of precum from before and residual sweat from the battle on Felix's thighs, but the more Dimitri moves, the easier it gets: Felix grows warmer and warmer with every movement, whether it's Dimitri's or his; Dimitri gets wetter and wetter with every thrust, encouraged by Felix's unfettered moans and gasps.

Felix turns his head to coax Dimitri into another messy kiss, mouths open and tongues eagerly meeting. He pushes his hips back, angling them so Dimitri can slide a little higher between his thighs. Their cocks rub together on every thrust, and it's good – better when Dimitri does it on purpose – but it's not  _ enough,  _ so Felix reaches down between his legs and wraps his gloved hand loosely around himself, leaving space to be able to touch Dimitri too whenever he thrusts forward.

It's messy, it's sloppy, it's erratic. It's the most uncoordinated sex Felix has ever had, and it's perfect, simply because it's Dimitri crowding up against him, Dimitri pushing him into the wall, Dimitri's short, hot breaths ghosting across his skin.

If this is what it's like to be with him – to finally, after all these years, know what it's like to feel Dimitri this close, to know him in such a primal, intimate way – then Felix never wants it to end. He wants to be able to be with Dimitri forever. To have him like this whenever he wants. To hold him, to kiss him, to love him.

The thought pushes Felix over the edge, and he comes with a cry muffled against Dimitri's mouth. He shakes through his orgasm, hips twitching and jerking, every muscle in his body tensing. Distantly, Felix realizes it must be doing something to Dimitri too, because his thrusting has become sharp and shallow. Arrhythmic. It's only when the last drops of his spend have been released that Felix realizes Dimitri has come, too.

He spends into Felix's hand with a low groan and a deep shudder, head hanging and hair obscuring his face. Felix desperately wishes he could have seen Dimitri's face the moment it had happened.

He consoles himself with the thought that when he wins, he'll have a second chance to. And many more thereafter.

The thought is nearly enough to get Felix going again, but he manages to control himself. Dimitri pulls back, softening cock sliding out from between Felix's thighs one last time before he tucks it away, back in his trousers.

"Ugh." Felix wrinkles his nose. "What a mess."

He turns and pulls his own pants back up. When he's done and his belts are fastened, he looks up to see Dimitri smiling at him, wide and sleepy, looking for all the world like a lovesick puppy.

"What?"

Dimitri steps toward him. He takes Felix's jaw in one hand and tilts his head, leaning in for one last long, lingering kiss. When he pulls away, he's still smiling.

"You won today," Dimitri breathes. "And you will win again. By this time tomorrow, Felix, I will be your betrothed."

The sound of trumpets rings out behind them, heralding the start of the next fight. Dimitri pulls away reluctantly, his touch leaving Felix at only the last possible second as he turns away to leave the hall.

He smiles at Felix one last time, over his shoulder. A final parting gift before the door closes behind him.

"Yes," Felix whispers, long after he's gone. "By this time tomorrow, I will be yours."

* * *

Sylvain loses his match.

Felix doesn't find out until hours later, when he goes looking for Sylvain only to hear that he's been taken to the castle's infirmary. When Felix arrives, Sylvain is pale, but conscious, a shameful smile on his face as he explains the situation.

"You idiot," Felix says. "You knew they were trying to poison us."

"Yeah, I know." Sylvain groans as he tries to sit up. "That doesn't mean I forgot during the match. Not my fault she was faster than me."

He peels up his shirt to reveal a nasty, festering wound. It's no doubt already been healed two or three times over, but still it lingers. No doubt it will scar if not tended to properly.

Felix nods. "Dark magic."

"Dark magic." He slumps back against the bed. "You'd better beat her tomorrow, Felix. If you don't, and this wound ends up ruining my dashing good looks, I'm blaming the end of the Gautier line on you."

Felix rolls his eyes. "Then perhaps I'll throw the match, after all."

He won't, and Sylvain knows he won't, and so it's easy for the two of them to laugh together. Despite the circumstances, Felix somehow feels lighter than he has in years. It's hard not to when he recalls Dimitri's words, when he feels Dimitri's handkerchief as a small, crumpled-up weight in his pocket.

When he knows that he's one day away from victory.

_ By this time tomorrow, I will be your betrothed. _

Everything is going to be fine.

* * *

Felix wakes early.

He goes to breakfast alone, eats only half of what would normally be filling, and spends the precious few hours he has to spare in the Blaiddyd Knights' training hall, warming up and practicing with his sword.

He passes by Dedue on the way out. Felix acknowledges him with a nod, intent on leaving it at that. After all these years, he and Dedue get on much better than they had when they were young, but Felix is still a man of few words, and Dedue a man of even fewer.

It’s surprising, then, that Dedue stops to speak with him.

"Today is your final match," he says.

Felix frowns. "Yes. So?"

Surprising as it was for Dedue to initiate this conversation, it is even more surprising when he almost-smiles at Felix. "Good luck," he says. "I am looking forward to your victory."

He bows his head and continues on his way, moving past Felix with nary a backward glance.

In the silence that follows, Felix cannot help but wonder if he’d read this situation entirely wrong. At least now, he finally feels as if he understands what’s really going on.

* * *

The final match begins with lightning. 

Felix casts the first spell, opening with magic rather than a swing of the sword. With how agile Lady Amelie has proven herself to be, how competent with a blade, Felix cannot risk her getting close.

Predictably, she jumps back, out of the way of the lightning. Felix tries a second spell, more powerful. She avoids that, too, and does not stumble when he casts Thoron to follow up. She is distracted, however; enough that Felix can quickly run in and strike a merciless blow to her side.

He slices through her armor. Lady Amelie cries out, hair whipping around her as she spins on her heel. She swings blindly for Felix. He deftly moves out of the way. He's caught by surprise, however, when he jumps right into a spell cast behind him.

He's not familiar enough with dark magic to know what hits him, but Felix does know that the pain coursing through his body is no ordinary pain. It sinks into his limbs, lingers in his blood, weighing him down and making it difficult to move.

Lady Amelie takes advantage of it. She swings her sword, aiming for Felix's chest. She comes up just short, only managing to graze him with the tip of the blade; Felix has been slowed, yes, but he is not immobile. Still, that blow is enough to stagger him as a new pain tears through him, emanating from his chest.

Felix grits his teeth. He's taken worse hits. He reminds himself of that even as he feels his body convulse against the poison lacing her blade. It must be powerful if it hurts this much from just a tiny scratch.

It's not enough to beat him, though. It can't be. So he fights on, pushing through the pain.  _ Forgetting _ it when he catches Dimitri's eye in the stands, wide and worried.

_ Idiot. _ Dimitri should be worrying for himself, not Felix.

He dashes forward. Lady Amelie looks surprised for a moment, but she regains her composure quickly enough, holding her sword up before her to parry Felix's sudden onslaught.

The clanging of their blades rings out through the arena, loud enough in Felix's ears to drown out the roaring of the crowd. He attacks her over and over again, each strike more powerful, more precise than the last.

Amelie sinks further and further back from Felix, unable to hold her stance against his relentless assault. Eventually, her knees buckle, and she's forced to the ground.

Felix swings for her head. His blade sinks into the sand beside it, severing a few locks of hair as she rolls out of the way. She ends up at his side, and in the split second before Felix pulls his sword back and turns to face her again, she casts another spell, knocking him onto his back.

This time, it's Felix's turn to roll out of the way. The magic that had slowed his movement has worn off, allowing him to spring to his feet just in time to avoid the sword that had been rapidly descending, point-first, toward his chest.

He whirls around and brings his sword down against Lady Amelie's back. She yells in pain, but does not let the blow stop her from ducking, rolling, and casting another spell at Felix.

It misses, but only just. He can hear the scream of dark magic in his ear, too close for comfort, as he runs past the bolt of it. He bears down on Lady Amelie again before she can properly stand, not quick or light enough on her feet to match Felix.

"Yield," he says as she parries his blow, as he leans his entire weight into trying to force the sword from her shaking grip. "Yield, or I'll kill you."

"You wouldn't," she hisses through gritted teeth. She shifts, sliding her sword along Felix's and forcing him off-kilter just long enough for her to take a swing at him. He blocks it.

"Try me," Felix grits back.

Her eyes widen for a moment, just a fraction of a second. It's a moment of weakness, of hesitation, and Felix jumps on it, backing up and thrusting his sword toward her. He pierces her armor yet again, but this time he feels it as he breaks skin, too.

She doesn't scream. She doesn't yell. Lady Amelie is eerily silent as she steps back, face drawn in pain and arm raised.

Felix knows exactly what she's about to do. He pulls back as quickly as he can, but he's just a split-second too late: she hits him with another spell and he goes flying.

Felix's back hits the arena wall. He can taste blood in his mouth – can see it as he coughs against the sandy floor. He's on his knees, trying to catch his breath and swallow down the bile in his throat, willing himself to get up and  _ fight _ , damn it. The battle can't end here.

He won't let it.

Felix looks up just in time to see her raise her sword above him. In less than a second, it will come down on his head and split his skull. 

He casts Thoron.

The spell strikes true, hitting Lady Amelie in the gut, right where Felix had sunk his sword into her a moment before. This time, she screams and flinches back, clutching at the wound.

Felix presses the opening he's created for himself, launching to his feet and shoving her to the ground with the flat of his blade. When she's down, he kneels atop her, knee pressing to her throat and tip of his sword between her eyes.

He stops before he can deal the final blow, flips the sword in his hand, and knocks her out with the pommel. Bloodthirsty as Faerghus's culture may still be, and much as the spectators are undoubtedly expecting a show, Felix knows the king would not approve.

And that's why he's doing this at all. For Faerghus's king. For  _ his _ king.

For his Dimitri.

The realization that he's won sinks in slowly, settling into Felix's mind as the adrenaline in his veins ebbs and dissipates. The blood in his ears drowns out the crowd's excited cheers, even after he stands on shaking legs. Felix looks up into the stands, helpless to do anything else but look toward Dimitri. Look toward his – his  _ betrothed. _

And what he sees makes his heart sing.

Dimitri is gripping the railing in front of him, leaning fully over it, his eye wide and mouth agape. He's smiling, though, small at first and spreading wide over his face.

He lurches forward. Behind him, Dedue makes to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Dimitri shrugs it off with no effort.

And then he promptly jumps over the railing.

Dimitri lands on his feet, shockingly graceful despite the height he'd fallen from and how much it would undoubtedly have hurt his knees. But he's running forward, and Felix is running to meet him, and they crash into each other in the middle of the arena, a tangle of limbs as they rush to get their arms around each other.

Felix does not know who makes the first move. He doesn't particularly care. All that matters is that Dimitri is kissing him, in front of a roaring crowd, pulling Felix close and claiming him as his own in front of everyone.

He pulls away, grinning like a madman. "Dimitri–"

"Felix," Dimitri breathes back, hands running over Felix's face, brushing his neck, threading through his hair. "You won. My love, my Felix–"

Felix kisses him again, and everything else falls away. The tournament, the people, the pain that still courses through his body. All that matters is that at last, Dimitri is his.

And he is Dimitri's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
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> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Epilogue

When at last they stumble into the king’s chambers together, Felix tangled up in Dimitri’s arms and Dimitri kissing any part of his face he can reach, it is all Felix can do to reach around and pull the door shut behind him. 

As soon as it's closed, Dimitri shoves him up against it, lifting Felix high enough he has to wrap his legs around Dimitri’s waist to keep himself from falling. 

“I thought we would never get away,” Dimitri says, tilting his head up to meet Felix in a fierce, eager kiss. Felix returns it just as enthusiastically, parting his lips and wrapping his arms around Dimitri’s shoulders to pull him close. “Do you know how hard it was to keep myself from dragging you away and throwing you over the nearest surface?”

Felix shivers. His head falls back against the door; Dimitri takes this chance to start kissing his neck. “You’re the one who insisted we stay,” Felix retorts, voice shaking more and more with every press of lips to his skin. 

He threads his hands through Dimitri’s hair, untying it where it’s still loosely held back. Dimitri’s laughter turns into a groan; Felix pulls him up so he can drag Dimitri into another kiss. He eagerly swallows each and every noise Dimitri makes, coaxing more from him with teeth and tongue.

It’s after one particularly sharp bite that Dimitri pulls back with a sharp gasp. He dives right back in, but this time he goes back to Felix’s neck, scraping his teeth along the soft, unmarred skin there and biting down whenever he comes to a spot he knows will make Felix shiver. He’s relentless, nipping and sucking and rocking his hips until Felix’s mind goes hazy and white. 

“Dimitri–” 

He tugs on Dimitri’s hair, trying to pull him away, to create enough space to breathe. But still, Dimitri continues, sinking his teeth into the junction between Felix’s neck and shoulder.

“Ah! Dimitri, stop – stop, you boar!” 

At last, that seems to catch Dimitri’s attention. He pulls away, low, quiet laughter in his throat as he presses one last kiss to Felix’s jaw. “You know,” he says, voice scratchy and strained. “You haven’t called me that since before our engagement. I almost miss it.” 

“I can start again, if you like,” Felix says drily. He squirms against Dimitri, unable to move, trapped as he is between the king’s bulk and the stiff, unforgiving oak of the door at his back. Thankfully, Dimitri steps back to let him down.

As soon as Felix’s feet touch the ground, he fists a hand in Dimitri’s cape and drags him down into another kiss. 

Eyes shut, Felix does not see Dimitri sway with knees weakened by the intensity of the kiss. He feels it just fine, though, and uses that opportunity to shove Dimitri backward. First one step, then two, and then he's practically shoving Dimitri onto the bed.

"So eager," Dimitri says as his back hits the mattress. Felix climbs atop him, straddling his hips and grinding down against his steadily-growing erection. He unclasps the mantle draped over one shoulder and tosses it aside, the rich blue fabric fluttering to the ground beside the bed. 

_ Their _ bed.

Felix's jacket quickly follows suit, buttons undone quickly and deftly. He delights in the way Dimitri's eye focuses on his hands, no doubt thinking of how those skilled fingers will undo him in turn soon enough. He licks his lips, and once the jacket is off, Felix rewards Dimitri for his patience by pressing a thumb to his lips; Dimitri obediently opens his mouth to flick it with his tongue.

"Good boy," Felix says. Dimitri’s gaze rises up to Felix's face; Felix smiles back down at him, but instead of giving Dimitri what he wants and pressing into his eager, accepting mouth, he pulls his hand back and works to strip himself of his vest and dress shirt.

Bare from the waist up, Felix bends to kiss Dimitri again, cupping his face in one hand. One of Dimitri's hands comes up to stroke over Felix's back, but Felix reaches behind himself to take it and lift it above Dimitri's head.

Felix laces their fingers together. A shiver runs through him as their wedding rings meet.

“Felix…” Dimitri turns his head, breaking the kiss. He rolls his hips, seeking friction. Felix happily obliges him, if only to hear his husband’s voice falter and break. 

“What is it?” Felix kisses his way to Dimitri’s ear, tugging the lobe between his teeth. “Use your words. Or are you back to being a boar, after all?” 

“No.” Dimitri throws his head back, exposing his neck for Felix and silently asking him to bite it. “I am…” 

“My husband.” Felix does not bite Dimitri. He slides back, the hand that had been at Dimitri’s face sliding down to wrap around his neck. 

“Yes.” Dimitri’s voice comes out breathless, insubstantial. Felix shudders. “Please, my love – my husband – let me have you.” 

His voice sends a thrill through Felix, warming his chest and spreading through his bones. He moans, hips twitching almost of their own accord. “Then have me,” he says, much more composed than he feels. “I am yours.” 

He slides off of Dimitri and steps off the bed, allowing him room to sit up and strip. Felix watches every movement greedily, drinks in every inch of newly-exposed skin as if it were his first time seeing it. By the time Dimitri stands up to get his trousers off, Felix has moved closer, crowding into his space and running his hands up and down Dimitri’s chest. 

Dimitri lays large, thick hands on Felix’s hips, thumbs rubbing small circles over them. He leans in to kiss Felix, slow and chaste, but Felix is more insistent: he tilts his head to the side and slides his tongue into Dimitri’s mouth, tugging him forward with hands at his shoulders and curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

They turn around, spinning in place as if dancing, though there is no music to coordinate them. They’re in perfect sync anyhow, Dimitri backing up to sit upon the edge of the bed and Felix crawling into his lap. 

They break apart only when they must, Felix’s lungs burning for air. He almost doesn’t want to, but he’s forced back when Dimitri takes hold of his cock.

Felix gasps, rutting into Dimitri’s hand. He squeezes his eyes shut against the sweet, lovestruck smile Dimitri fixes him with, still unable to face him like this, even after so long. 

“Felix.” Dimitri’s other hand comes up to Felix’s face. His wedding ring is cool against Felix’s heated skin, a tiny tether to keep him grounded. Felix turns his head to kiss it, lips dragging along Dimitri’s palm. 

“Dimitri,” he says back, a low hum in his throat. He opens his eyes to find Dimitri staring reverently at him, kiss-swollen lips parted in awe and face flushed a pretty shade of pink. Felix’s heart flutters in his chest, beating as hard as if he’s falling in love all over again. 

He shifts in Dimitri’s lap, sitting up on his knees so he’s hovering over the swollen head of his cock. Dimitri shudders under him, breath catching in his throat as Felix lowers himself and grinds against it. “You want me.” 

“Yes, Felix.” 

“Then stop making me wait.” 

He doesn’t have to say it again. Dimitri lets go; Felix bites back a whine at the loss of contact, but he tells himself to be patient. It will be worth it. 

Dimitri slips out from under Felix, crawling backwards on the bed until he reaches the other side. He turns to fish their well-used bottle of oil out of the bedside drawer, giving Felix a perfect view of his taut, round ass. 

And, well. Felix has never been able to resist it before; why should tonight be any different? He shuffles forward on his knees and smacks Dimitri, eliciting a loud, high-pitched yelp from him. 

Felix smirks when Dimitri turns to look at him over his shoulder, face an even darker shade of red than before. “Felix…” 

“What?” Felix spanks him again. Dimitri shudders and sinks down, face resting against the silken sheets. “Tell me what you want, Dimitri.” 

Even with the request, Dimitri is silent. It’s only when Felix smacks him one more time that he manages to utter a breathless, “ _ You _ .”

And then, at last, Felix relents, moving back to lie against the pillows. 

Dimitri joins him there, oil in hand. He slots himself between Felix’s legs, the slick, dripping head of his cock brushing against Felix’s thigh as he settles in. He takes a moment to let his eye drag over Felix’s body, drinking in each and every detail of his body. 

Felix huffs. “What are you staring at?” he snaps. Felix has never been a modest man, but under Dimitri’s loving gaze, he cannot help but look away. “It’s not like you’ve never seen me like this.” 

Dimitri shakes his head. “I know,” he says. He leans forward to brush a stray lock of hair from Felix’s face. “I simply cannot help myself. You’re beautiful, Felix.” 

He kisses Felix’s forehead. Felix rolls his eyes. He’s heard it all before. “Whatever. Just get on with it.” 

A small laugh escapes Dimitri’s throat. “Always so impatient. Am I not allowed to enjoy myself on my wedding night?” 

“ _ Our _ wedding night,” Felix corrects. 

Dimitri laughs. “Fair enough.” He pulls back, pops the stopper on the bottle of oil, and pours some into his palm; Felix’s eyes follow it, hungrily watching as Dimitri slicks himself up. 

“Wait.” Felix sits up, shifting to sit on his knees. He takes Dimitri’s hand to lift it away and ignores the confused look he gets in return. “Let me.” 

Dimitri’s brows rise, but he does as Felix says, just as he always does. He allows Felix to rearrange them, leaning back against the pillows when Felix presses a palm to his chest. “Like this?” 

“Shut up. You know exactly what I want.” He’s being smart now; Felix just knows it. The quiet chuckle he earns for snapping confirms that much, but he has long since learned to tolerate this. 

“I do,” Dimitri agrees. He opens his mouth again, no doubt about to say something else foolish and inane, so Felix takes hold of his cock and twists it meanly. 

That shuts Dimitri up nicely. 

Felix smirks as he begins to stoke his husband in earnest. He leans in close, hovering over him, supporting himself with one hand against the wall. Dimitri’s eye has fluttered shut, his mouth fallen open. His head is tilted to the side, almost as if he’s trying to hide his pretty pink blush. Felix knows that’s not the case, though: Dimitri does not have the presence of mind to be shy right now. He simply cannot control himself. 

And that’s just the way Felix has come to love him. 

Dimitri squirms under his hand. The movement disrupts Felix’s rhythm for a moment, so he squeezes the base of Dimitri’s cock, hard, to still him.

“Ah – no, Fe-Felix – please–”

“Look at me.” The hand on the wall moves to Dimitri’s chin, and Felix grips it tight to pull Dimitri’s face towards him. Dimitri opens his eye a crack– it’s all he can do, overwhelmed as he is. 

They maintain that eye contact, little as it is, until Felix starts jerking Dimitri off again. Dimitri tries to shut his eye again, but Felix digs a nail into his cheek. “I said look at me, Dimitri.” 

This time, Dimitri holds his gaze. Even now, it’s hard for Felix not to avert his eyes; he still despises eye contact, as he always has, but there’s something about seeing Dimitri like this, eye hazy and unfocused as he loses himself in pleasure, that makes Felix want to push through it as long as he can. 

But even then, he can’t do it for long. He moves in to kiss Dimitri deeply, closing his eyes as their lips and tongues crash together. He feels Dimitri’s moan rumble through them both, loud as it is and close as they are. He feels it taper off and turn into a high whine, as well, when Felix lifts his hand away. 

He pulls back. Dimitri slumps against the pillows, looking absolutely wrecked with his brightly flushed skin and a string of saliva still connecting him to Felix. It breaks when Felix wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, but Dimitri’s gaze never falters (though Felix doubts he’s truly comprehending what he sees). 

He shifts so that he’s straddling Dimitri’s hips. “Watch me,” Felix says. 

He reaches behind himself. Using the remnants of the oil from Dimitri’s cock, he fingers himself open, starting with two fingers and making quick work of himself. Felix gasps and stutters as he rocks back on his hand, searching for that spot inside him that–

“Goddess,” Dimitri breathes, breaking Felix out of his sudden fervor. “What could I have done to deserve…” 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence: Felix claps his free hand over Dimitri’s mouth to shut him up. Dimitri simply smiles under his palm and turns his head to kiss Felix’s wedding band. 

And that’s it. Felix can’t stand it anymore. He needs Dimitri inside him  _ now. _

He pulls his fingers out of himself roughly and shifts so he can hover over Dimitri’s cock. Felix rocks his hips a few times, lightly grinding against it before he decides to stop teasing and sink down. 

Felix’s breath catches, then leaves him in one loud, sudden burst. This is far from the first time he’s taken Dimitri’s cock, but despite becoming used to the size, it somehow always takes him by surprise just how much Dimitri can  _ stretch _ him.

“Felix, my love…” Dimitri reaches for him, taking his face in one hand. “Breathe.” 

“Don’t – don’t tell me what to do.” He does breathe, of course, even as he defiantly rolls his hips. Goddess, he’s so  _ full _ .

There. Slowly, slowly, he sinks down the rest of the way, waiting until he’s fully seated atop Dimitri before moving again. And when he does, Felix does not ease into it: he rides Dimitri just the way they both like, hard and fast and relentless. Little grunts and moans spill readily from his lips with every movement, and only grow in volume and fervor when Dimitri grips his hips and starts to move him. 

Felix cries out, throwing an arm over his mouth to try and quiet himself, only to have Dimitri wrench it away again. 

“No,” he says, voice low and rough, so much like how he had been during the war. “Not tonight. It is our wedding night, Felix; I want to hear you.” 

Helpless to disobey, Felix moans, nodding fervently. He shifts up and slams back down on Dimitri’s cock, meeting his husbands every rough upward thrust, over and over and over again. 

“Dimitri–” Felix gasps, eyes widening and body tensing as his husband finally, finally finds his prostate. “Dimitri, I’m–” 

He doesn’t manage to finish. Before he can get the words out, Felix comes, entire body convulsing. He cries out just once, right as it hits, then falls silent except to gasp, desperately, for air. 

Dimitri grunts, hissing through his clenched teeth. His grip tightens on Felix’s hips, and for a moment, Felix thinks he’s about to come too. But he doesn’t: instead, Dimitri pushes him over, knocking Felix onto his back and crawling over him. 

Dimitri pulls out and slams back in before Felix is even fully aware of what’s happening. Instinctively, he arches up and wraps his legs around Dimitri’s thin, lithe waist, holding him close and clinging to him desperately.

In this position, Felix is at eye-level with Dimitri’s chest. Overstimulated and mindless as he is, he acts on instinct, chasing the impulse to surge up and bury his face between his husband’s pecs. He opens his mouth on a groan, kissing and licking up the sweat that’s gathered between them. A low growl rumbles through Dimitri’s chest – all the warning Felix gets before he’s suddenly wrenched back by the hair and thrown back on the bed. 

“Dimitri, what–” 

“Too much,” Dimitri grunts. He bites his lip, brow furrowing and eye squeezing shut. He’s close. So, so close. “I want – I need–” 

Felix nods, though Dimitri can’t see it. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, Dimitri, yes, you can come inside–” 

Dimitri stills, every muscle in his body tensing as he lets himself go. His cock pulses as he spends inside Felix, filling him up. It’s a feeling Felix doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of, and despite how tired his body is, a part of him is already desperate to go again at the mere thought of being filled so thoroughly. 

It’s some time before Dimitri regains the wherewithal to pull out. When he does, he rolls over to lie on his side next to Felix, reaching out to caress his face with the back of his hand. There’s a small, almost shy smile on his face – the same one he’d worn the first time they’d made love. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Felix says, though he returns the smile. He shuffles closer to Dimitri, throwing an arm around his waist and nuzzling into his chest. A broad hand slides over his shoulders; Felix melts into Dimitri’s touch. 

They lie like that for what feels like hours. But eventually, Dimitri shifts, groaning with the effort of stretching his muscles.

Felix’s eyes fall to the mess still on his stomach. Though he would much rather continue to lie here and bask in the warmth of his husband’s embrace, he knows it must be uncomfortable for Dimitri, and so he stands up to gather his things from off the floor.

“Where are you going?” Dimitri asks, words almost slurred from exhaustion.

“You’re a mess,” Felix says by way of explanation. He kneels down to rifle through the pockets of his discarded clothes, and when he comes back, he sits before Dimitri and takes the handkerchief he’d been granted, all those many months ago, to his husband’s skin.

Dimitri watches, his one eye fixed on the blue material. “You’re still carrying that around with you?”

It doesn’t sound much like a question, and so Felix doesn’t answer. He simply slides the cloth along Dimitri’s stomach, cleaning up the mess.

"Do you recognize it?" 

This question catches Felix off guard. He looks at Dimitri with a frown, then turns his gaze back to the handkerchief. “Of course not,” he says. It’s just a piece of blue fabric. “Should I?”

Dimitri smiles. “Perhaps not,” he says. “Do you remember our first battle after reuniting at Garreg Mach?”

Felix’s brow pinches. “Where are you going with this?”

Dimitri doesn’t answer; he simply continues his story: “You pulled me aside, dragged me to the banner we would march under. You told me, 'this flag means nothing…'"

"'...If flown by a beast.'" Felix finishes the sentence, a hand on his face to shield his eyes from Dimitri's stare. He feels more naked now than ever.

"Yes," Dimitri says, quietly. "And then do you remember what you did?" 

"... I cut the flag in two. Goddess, Dimitri, don't make me think about it." This is so embarrassing. He had been so brash when he was young, so foolish. And yet… 

"You did." The smile on Dimitri's face is warm, soft, fond. He reaches for the handkerchief, rubbing one of the clean corners between his thumb and forefinger. "And then you stormed off."

Felix huffs. He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about how hurt he’d been, how he’d abandoned the person he cared about the most in his time of need.

How he couldn’t face his feelings.

It’s shameful, now, remembering this. In their wedding bed, no less. Felix squirms uncomfortably. Dimitri reaches for his hand and laces their fingers together.

"I bent down and picked up the fallen half of the flag,” Dimitri continues. “I thought it fitting I should keep it, as I was only half the man it was meant to represent."

"…And so you did."

"And so I did. A keepsake. A reminder of who I once was to you. Of who I needed to be. Of who I thought I could never be again." He smiles gently and lifts Felix’s hand to his lips to press a long, lingering kiss to his wedding band. “And look where we are now.”

Despite his embarrassment, Felix smiles. He sets the handkerchief aside and takes Dimitri’s face in his free hand. “Married,” he says. “You are the man you were always meant to be. The man I fell in love with.”

Dimitri’s eye shines. He lowers Felix’s hand and smiles up at him.

“Yes,” he says. “I am.”

Felix kisses him. No more words need to be exchanged between them. For now, it is enough to just lie here together, enjoying each other’s warmth and basking in the knowledge that they are right where they should be: together, joined at last as husbands. Joined at last by their undying, unyielding love.

**Author's Note:**

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